


The Shape of Vanished Things

by audreyskdramablog



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, Gen, Graphic Description of Corpses, Post-Canon, Wakes & Funerals, as best as i could manage at least, here have a sad, i sobbed my way through the ending of this stupid game so have some feels, it's not that detailed but the body is still described
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-13
Updated: 2018-07-13
Packaged: 2019-06-09 21:23:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15276465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/audreyskdramablog/pseuds/audreyskdramablog
Summary: They carry Noctis out of Insomnia on a stretcher made from long abandoned polearms, scavenged rope, and Ignis and Prompto’s Kingsglaive jackets. Gladio’s is draped over Noct’s body to give him what dignity they can. The Sword of the Father is beneath, positioned over, not through, Noct’s chest.The sunlight is far warmer than Ignis remembered, but in the aching aftermath of Noctis’s sacrifice, it seems like such a paltry reward.





	The Shape of Vanished Things

The blast knocks Ignis to the wet paving stones on hands and knees, sending his dagger skittering away from him. But it is the sudden phantom burning in his eyes that has him reaching, instinctively, for the Armiger and the connection that binds him to his king. 

He cannot find it.

Not even the shape, the shadow, of where the bond had been. Even when Noct was lost inside the Crystal, it had been there, a promise of return.

“Noct.” It comes out a breath, and it is only then that he feels another absence: the world gone quiet, still in a way it has not been since the decade of night began. No howling, blazing elements, no clang of daemon-forged steel, no screaming or shuddering, broken earth. It is silent and empty in a way that death has never been.

The daemons are gone. Which means—

“ _Noct!_ ”

Prompto’s voice slices across the plaza, and the anguish in it pushes Ignis back to his feet. He does not try to retrieve his dagger—the last one, the rest are wherever the magic ( _his king_ ) has vanished to—and instead follows the rush of Prompto’s footsteps toward the Citadel and up its grand, sweeping stairs.

Gladio does not shout, but Ignis soon hears his thundering footsteps coming up behind them. Their sprint is reckless and desperate, fueled by the denial and the fear they had fought so hard to suppress around the campfire. _It’s more than I can take_ , Noct had confessed, and those words had put fragile stoppers in the flasks of their preemptive grief. As close as the three of them had been to breaking, they would not risk fracturing Noctis in the last hours he was theirs.

The way was clear when they first entered, and Ignis trusts his memories and his companions’ footsteps to lead him true. Neither fails him. Prompto’s shoes skid on the polished stone before the elevator, and the sharp slap of his hand on the buttons is still in the air when the elevator chimes and the doors whisper open.

They crowd into the elevator. Prompto hits the buttons again, and the world sways more than it should when the elevator begins its climb. Or it seems that way to Ignis, forced to stop and collect himself again, caught in a too-small space with their breathing and collective dread heavy in his ears. To his right, Prompto’s breath hitches like he’s ready to scream Noct’s name again; to his left, Gladio radiates a dangerous, restless energy despite the comparative evenness of his breathing.

All Ignis can remember as the elevator climbs higher is the vision he received at the Altar of the Tidemother and the unknown voice that grated out the promise of Noctis’s death. The promise he did not want to believe until Noctis groped for words at the campfire and confirmed the weight of the secret Ignis had burdened himself with for years.

A different memory follows, then: _A king pushes onward always, accepting the consequences and never looking back._

The elevator begins to open. Prompto spills out the doors and bolts for the throne room. Ignis follows, then Gladio when the doors open wide enough to let him through. He hears the impact of Prompto hurling himself at the double doors and then a heartbeat—two, three—later, an awful choking.

Ignis had thought them close to ruin once, in the aftermath of Altissia. When he stops beside Prompto, Prompto reaches out to him with desperate hands, and Ignis is certain that they are truly, finally breaking. Prompto screams into his shoulder, and Ignis lifts a hand to cup the back of Prompto’s head though he knows there is no touch in this world to soothe him.

“I’ll get him,” Gladio says. Ignis did not know his voice could go so quiet or so rough. He runs his hand down Prompto’s shuddering neck and listens to Gladio’s footfalls on the stairs and Prompto’s ragged, muffled breathing.

The vision at Altissia stopped short of showing him the moment of Noct’s death, but Ignis remembers the way Noctis had slumped, unsteady, on the throne and the final sword aimed at his heart. The Kings of Lucis were not gentle in the forging of their Chosen.

There is a wet and wrenching sound, and then the clatter of metal on stone. Ignis thinks that Gladio must have simply dropped the sword from the height of the throne. The sound startles Prompto into pushing out of Ignis’s grip; Ignis lets him go. Neither of them speak as Gladio descends with the body of their king and lays him out on the floor.

Ignis kneels; or tries, rather. It is more accurate to call it a controlled collapse. Prompto crashes on the other side.

He strips off his gloves and reaches for one of Noct’s hands. A body does not cool instantly upon death, especially not when the magic of gods and kings has filled it past capacity. Ignis remembers the agony of his veins being set alight. His fingers shift up to Noct’s wrist, beneath the sleeves of his kingly raiment, checking automatically for a pulse. There is none, nor can he feel any breathing when he holds the back of his hand over Noct’s mouth and nose.

“Maybe he’s not—” The desperation in Prompto’s voice is painful. “Do you—can we—?”

Ignis fishes out the feather from his jacket, the one he had plucked from the Armiger and hid away in reserve after Noctis finally went inside their tent. It was a childish impulse because he knew as surely then as he does when he presses it to Noct’s chest that it will not work. The phoenix down, the Armiger, and all the rest—their powers are made manifest through the royal bloodline. 

The phoenix down is meant to save a man from the brink of death. The brink, and no further. And Noctis is the last king.

Prompto’s hand covers his own and presses down, as if somehow the two of them can do something that just one of them cannot. Gladio lets out a long, low sigh and shifts, settling noisily at Noctis’s feet. It is a haunting reproduction of their normal configuration when they camp: Ignis to Noct’s right, Prompto on his left, and Gladio at the end, between the three of them and the dangers outside the tent.

 _I'll always have you in my heart_ , Noctis had promised, and Ignis knows it is true by the chasm widening in his chest. Noctis took a piece of him, a piece of _them_ , with him when he entrusted them to buy him time to end the Night. Ignis hopes it was enough. That in whatever place Noctis chased Ardyn to, he did not feel alone after all he had endured.

Prompto gives up on a miracle eventually and weeps, and with that permission, Ignis does as well, quieter but equally without shame. He thinks, distantly, that Gladio might be crying, too, based on the changed rhythm of his breathing. Ignis finds Noct’s hand again, though this time he is the one to grip it with both hands. 

(The Ring of the Lucii is gone. He can feel the phantom burning when his palm skims over the place it must have sat on Noctis’s hand.) 

Even after they are finished crying, they sit in silence around the body of their king. Ignis ignores the faintly growing scent of blood. A distant part of his brain notes that this means the sword must have pierced entirely through Noctis’s body for any blood to be drawn out by gravity.

Gladio grunts, and then he says, “The sky.”

Ignis tips his head up toward where his memories say a window should be, but there were never many miracles for him.

“It’s changing.” Prompto’s breath hitches, like he is on the verge of tears again or, perhaps, his old laughter. “I think—the sun is rising.”

* * *

They carry Noctis out of Insomnia on a stretcher made from long abandoned polearms, scavenged rope, and Ignis and Prompto’s Kingsglaive jackets. Gladio’s is draped over Noct’s body to give him what dignity they can. The Sword of the Father is beneath, positioned over, not through, Noct’s chest.

(Gladio insisted on bringing it, but not as a weapon for him to use even though all his are lost. He wants to place it in Noct’s tomb, once it is built. The Engine Blade is gone, Gladio argues, and Regis owes his son.)

Ignis and Gladio carry the stretcher, with Prompto at their side to guard them. Prompto never strays too far even though they all grew used to fighting on their own. Ten long years of daemons makes defensive habits difficult to squash, even though Ignis can feel the sunlight on his face and hear the quiet of a world slowly waking from a nightmare. The sunlight is far warmer than he remembered, but in the aching aftermath of Noctis’s sacrifice, it seems like such a paltry reward.

It is an unfair thought, both to the survivors of the Night and to Noctis, so Ignis does his best to bury it.

They make it back to camp by midmorning. Sweat prickles at his hairline and at the nape of his neck, and his arms and back ache from the strain of carrying the stretcher. His palms burn with the promise of new blisters.

(By the time Ignis thought to put his gloves back on, the small pool of Noct’s blood had reached them. He left the gloves behind.)

By wordless agreement, they place Noctis in the tent they hadn’t bothered breaking down. None of them sit in the chairs around the ashes of last night’s fire.

The phoenix down wasn’t the only thing that Ignis plucked from the Armiger in case there was an afterwards. He retrieves three of the four bottles of water from the corner of the tent on his way out. They drink in silence, the tepid water not enough relief to pull their thoughts from the Citadel or the tent behind them. 

Prompto fiddles with his empty bottle for a while, making it crackle and pop distractingly until he finds his voice. “Should we send someone to Hammerhead? For help.”

“We don’t need help.” Gladio’s voice is sharper than the question warrants, but grief is one of his favorite whetstones. “We can carry him.” 

“Then I’ll take a turn.” 

“That may not be necessary,” Ignis says and inclines his toward the road. An engine grumbles in the distance, faint but growing louder.

Prompto scurries closer to the road. Gladio deliberately finishes his water and does not move to get a better view.

“It’s Talcott,” Prompto says after a moment. “Or his truck, at least.” He scrambles down from the campsite, calling out to whoever is driving the truck as he runs toward the road.

Ignis wonders if Prompto has grown out of the habit of waving his arms around wildly, but he is pulled from that question when Gladio snarls, quietly enough that Ignis knows it is not for show.

“We have carried him already, Gladio.” _We conveyed him safely to his end_ , but he keeps that thought locked safely behind the hollow space in his chest. “Prince Noc—” He ignores the hitch in his voice and hopes Gladio will as well. “King Noctis never said we also had to bear his passing all alone.”

“Ignis—” But Gladio’s voice fails him. 

He waits a moment, but when it’s clear that Gladio is not ready, he nods once and returns to the tent. He places his empty water bottle back into the corner where he left the fourth and carefully checks that Noctis is still secure on the makeshift stretcher. Then he waits, poised at his end of the stretcher, until Gladio finally opens the flap of the tent and enters to take the other side. 

* * *

After Talcott composes himself, he does not ask if any of them want to ride in the cab with him. He simply helps Prompto secure the tailgate once Ignis and Gladio have gotten Noctis into the bed of the truck. Then he gets back into his truck, and Ignis, Gladio, and Prompto take up their positions around their king.

Ignis leans back against the side of the truck as Talcott turns the vehicle around and picks up speed. The rumble of the engine, the sun in his face, the wind rushing by—it reminds him of all the time they spent in the Regalia. Him, most often driving; Prompto, never still in the passenger seat; Gladio, with his favorite book; and Noctis, perched on the back of the seat no matter how many times Ignis told him not to. 

It is a smaller, though no less bloody, wound when he catches himself about to smile at memories he thought had faded in the dark.

* * *

Hammerhead is waiting for them, quiet and subdued. Ignis knows by the way no one rushes over or starts a cheer that Talcott has called ahead to warn them what bringing back the sun has cost. He is relieved he doesn’t have to field questions, that everyone keeps enough distance that even he cannot decipher what it is they’re murmuring when Prompto lowers the tailgate and he and Gladio slide the stretcher out.

“Over here.” It’s Cindy’s voice, warmer than sunlight and just as difficult to bear. “I’ve got a place for him all set up.”

They carry Noctis into Cindy’s garage and set him on what probably was a workbench, based on its height and width. Noctis and the stretcher fit easily upon it. Cindy pulls the sliding garage door down after them, and the clang when it hits the cement cuts them off from the rest of Hammerhead and all its whispers. The garage smells of engine oil, gasoline, and grease. It will smell of blood and death soon, if they let Noct linger here.

“Someone’s hunting up food for y’all and something to get cleaned up with,” Cindy says. She approaches the only side of the table that is free, but her footsteps pause before she gets too close. Prompto manages to murmur something like gratitude, and Cindy lets out a long breath that is almost a sigh. When she speaks again, her voice is soft enough to suffocate in. “I’m sorry, boys. None of this is fair. To you or him.”

It isn’t. To have him back for a few hours after ten years of waiting—

Ignis bows his head and braces his hands against the workbench, careful not to disturb his king. The metal is cool under his fingertips and gives him something with which to anchor himself. He needs to focus on the practicalities, have something to keep his mind occupied, or he may retreat from his final responsibilities.

“Eventually, King Noctis will have a tomb,” Ignis tells her. He doesn’t know if there is anyone still alive in what used to be Lucis who has the masonry skills to make one properly, but those details can be handled later. Based on the vehemence with which Gladio had insisted they bring the Sword of the Father with them, Gladio may just teach himself the trade if no one suitable is left. “That may take years, however. We need to…take care of his body before then.”

After ten years of daemons, it has become habit for everyone to dispose of bodies quickly, by fire and not by burial, for fear of what the corpses might attract. And even though their king’s sacrifice has cleansed the world, Ignis does not want Noctis to rot before them.

When neither Gladio nor Prompto object, Cindy says, “Y’all leave that to me. We’ll have a fitting send-off for His Majesty.”

* * *

Gladio makes sure they wash and eat when the food arrives. Ignis doesn’t need to be told—he has an easier time compartmentalizing than the others, and this isn’t the first time in ten years he has let his mind drift to other things in order to take care of his body’s inconvenient needs—but Prompto has to be harassed into it while they discuss their next actions. It would have been easier to eat had they left the garage, yet none of them are willing to leave Noctis unattended.

Cindy jury-rigs partitions across the garage to give them the illusion of privacy. A thoughtful gesture on her part, though it is impossible to forget that she is on the other side when she begins her work. The noise she makes as she hammers and cuts and drills is soothing since it fills the void where daemons used to be. So much quiet is unnerving.

Gladio gathers up their dishes and slips out the small side door with them. Ignis takes off his glasses and massages the bridge of his nose, trying to ward off the headache that is threatening there. Whether it’s the memory of his eyes burning or the lack of sleep or physical exhaustion or the bone-deep sorrow, he is fairly certain he will end up losing.

“This will be difficult,” Ignis says, as much to Prompto as to himself. “Prepare yourself, as best you can. And if you need a moment to gather yourself, do so. Someone will always be with him.”

“Yeah.” Prompto scuffs his foot on the cement, and Ignis imagines him bouncing up and down, twenty and jittery again. “I—yeah. I’ll be okay.”

Ignis does not call him on the lie.

Gladio returns a short while later, his pace a little slower for all the supplies he carries. He sets them nearby, and Ignis puts his glasses back on so they can begin their work. Prompto pulls off Gladio’s Kingsglaive jacket—one sharp inhalation—and removes the sword from Noct’s clasped hands. He sets it aside, the metal scraping on the concrete. Ignis and Gladio lift Noctis from the workbench just high enough that Prompto can tug the stretcher out from under him. They set him back down again, and after a long, painful moment in which no one moves, Ignis places his hands on Noctis’s right shoe and carefully pulls it off.

They undress him. Noctis’s body is cooler now, so much so that Ignis has to squelch the instinctive urge to draw back when his fingers brush the skin. For once Ignis is grateful to have lost his sight because that allows him the space for denial about what Noct must look like now, hours after death. He can imagine what Noctis looked like sleeping instead of pale or ashen, blood settling in his back and legs, purpling the skin there unnaturally.

Gladio stitches the wound in Noct’s chest closed first, and then Prompto helps Ignis roll Noctis to his side so that Gladio can close the one in his back. Prompto takes one of the buckets of water and a rag and scrubs the table quickly. When he is finished, they roll Noctis onto his back again and begin to wash his body.

It doesn’t take long, not even with how often they take turns pausing, pulling back, and taking a few ragged breaths to collect themselves. It grows easier to acknowledge that Noctis is dead like this, but Ignis still finds it difficult to process even though the proof is underneath his fingertips. Only a few hours returned, then gone again, and sunlight in his place.

When Noct is clean and Gladio has finished shaving him, Prompto gathers up all the bloody clothes and leaves the garage. He insists he will get them cleaned and repaired. Ignis finds the sheet that Gladio set aside and carefully drapes it over Noct’s body.

“Go wash up,” Gladio says abruptly.

A corpse is still a corpse, after all, no matter who it used to be. ( _No matter who it_ _is_.)

“Make sure Prompto does, too. I’ll stay with Noct.”

Ignis inclines his head. “Of course. When we’re finished, one of us will relieve you.”

* * *

He asks someone what direction Prompto headed in, though eventually he can just follow the sound of him struggling to compose himself. Behind what used to be the diner, Prompto is hiding, either kneeling or sitting, Ignis doesn’t know.

“Ignis.” His voice is thick and uneven, and he clears his throat when Ignis crouches down beside him and clasps his shoulder with one hand. “I just—I found—”

He waves something in front of Ignis’s face, something that easily catches and displaces the air in a miniature breeze.

“What is it?” Ignis keeps his voice mild, not wanting to be too blunt in his reminder that he cannot see whatever it is that Prompto is waving.

“Right, sorry. It’s…Noct’s picture. I found it in his jacket.”

Ignis squeezes Prompto’s shoulder. It takes a considerable amount of effort to keep his words steady. “We’ll make sure it stays with him, then.”

* * *

He helps Prompto clean the bloody clothes and hang them to dry on an impromptu clothesline in the midday sun. Noctis’s suit jacket and shirt are the worst off, and Prompto curses under his breath at the blood until it comes out to his satisfaction. They will need to be repaired once they are dry. Ignis can hear a growing crowd of people but ignores them since they are keeping their distance. Gladio’s jacket, which had been draped atop Noct’s body, has the least amount of blood on it and only needs a light scrubbing. Theirs take more effort, as they had been part of the stretcher, but eventually Prompto declares them clean.

They wash death off of them, and when they emerge from the trailer, the crowd has dispersed. Or perhaps _reformed_ is a better word for the noise he is hearing, over at the other end of Hammerhead.

“They’re building something.” Prompto slows to a stop, presumably to stare from an unobtrusive distance. Ignis stops beside him. “Talcott—he seems to be directing them.”

Ignis frowns for a moment. “The pyre?”

“I think so.”

They stand there for a few more moments, grappling anew with the reality of what has happened. Prompto moves first, and Ignis falls into step with him. He notes the way the noise drops when they approach and resumes once they’ve stepped back inside the garage. Cindy is talking quietly on her side of the dividers and a stranger’s voice replies, both soft enough that Ignis cannot make out many words. There is a scrape of a chair across cement—apparently this new woman will be staying for a while—and Cindy’s noisy work resumes.

“You finished?” That’s Gladio’s voice, coming from the direction of where Noct’s body is.

“Yeah, we are. Sorry we took so long.”

Ignis takes the opportunity to fill Gladio in on what they did with the clothes and the work going on outside. Gladio’s spine pops as he stretches either his shoulders or his back. “I’ll get clean, then see if I can help out. Make sure they’re doing it right.”

“I’ll help, too. If that’s okay with you, Ignis,” Prompto adds too quickly.

He answers the question that Prompto is really asking. “I’ll stay with him.”

* * *

Ignis sits cross-legged in the garage, his back against a clear section of wall, the only concession he is willing to make to his exhaustion. On the other side of the partition, Cindy and the other woman continue their work and their whispers. Occasionally one or both of them head outside, but they always return promptly. The background noise makes it easy to drift through memories of other days—exploring the food stalls in Lestallum, climbing the Rock of Ravatogh, wandering the beach at Gladin Quay. Not always good, not always safe, but they were days that still had futures. Even in the Night, they had a promise from the Six to hold aloft, a beacon to fix their hopes upon: Noctis would return, and the sun would rise again.

He did, and it has, and for the first time in Ignis’s life, he is without purpose.

The only future he had wanted is lying dead beside his king. He wonders if Gladio and Prompto have realized it yet. Noctis will have no need for shield or hand or friend after tonight, though a more honest man would admit that Noctis has not needed anything since the Citadel steps. There is no map for them to follow now, and the blankness of tomorrow is limitless and foreboding.

(Gladio has, Ignis decides. It is why he is so insistent on the sword, the tomb—new goals to focus on that are adjacent to the old. Prompto likely isn’t thinking so far ahead, but perhaps Ignis is underestimating him. It would not be the first time.)

It is a selfish indulgence, to pity himself for the loss of his life’s devotion when there are many more in the exact same position. The remnants of the Crownsguard and Kingsglaive, who survived the death of King Regis and the years of Night, will know soon, if they don’t already, that there is no more royal family to protect and serve. With the daemons gone forever and the greatest empire in Eos destroyed, there is an excess of swords and shields. If what’s left of humanity is to thrive again, many of them will need to set those weapons aside in favor of hammers and chisels and plows. They will have to remember far less bloody days and figure out how to return to them even though too much has changed.

Ignis remembers Noctis digging in the garden soil at Cape Caem and his surprised—delighted—smile when the first bits of green poked up through the earth. The compassion with which he helped strangers he never saw again (though not always without complaining). How content he was whenever he had a fishing pole in his hands and a pier beneath his feet. The way he would whine whenever they tried to coax him back to wakefulness. His reckless driving, his cockiness in battle, his—

_You know, looking back, it wasn't all bad._

_I suppose we had some fun along the way._

Ignis sets aside his glasses so he can bury his face in his hands.

* * *

“Ignis? You mind coming over for a second?”

Cindy’s voice pulls him from his memories with a start. He had almost forgotten she was there, though now he thinks he hasn’t heard her hammering for a while, just a long stretch of small pieces of metal crimping and a scraping like naga scales over stone. “Of course. Just a moment.” Ignis puts his glasses back on and climbs to his feet.

Cindy meets him at the partition, and he is touched by her continued thoughtfulness at not wanting him to stray too far away from Noctis or to cross into the half of the garage that she has given them. “I still ain’t that great with wood,” Cindy admits. There is a sturdy thump as something settles on the floor between them. “But I think this’ll work for you to carry him.”

Ignis reaches out. His fingertips slide over smooth, warm wood, though it is not all one piece. There is—yes, a lattice pattern laid over the solid background. Simply, but evenly made, in long, narrow strips that are all perfectly parallel, so far as he can tell. The piece itself is rectangular, with a small lip around the edges, about as tall as his hand is wide.

“Those polearms you brought back were perfect for the handles. Gladio gave ‘em to me while you were out. Tried to make it look nice.”

Cindy always did excel at improving whatever they brought her. First the Regalia, and now transforming the remnants of the stretcher into a litter. It is well made, like everything else she touches. “It will do,” he tells her, and he hopes she hears the gratitude in those words.

* * *

Prompto flits in and out of the garage over the course of the afternoon, giving Ignis updates on what is happening with the pyre, estimates on how many new people have arrived to crowd outside Hammerhead’s fence, and offering to swap out if he needs a break. Ignis takes him up on the offer exactly once, when the fumes from the paint Cindy and her partner are using finally draw his headache out of hiding. He takes the chance for fresher air and to relieve himself. 

Gladio finds him walking along Hammerhead’s fence, his headache fading, and offers him a bottle of water. Ignis drinks while Gladio describes the pyre and the growing crowd and reviews their plan again. Then changing gears abruptly, he adds, “Some of them are getting nervous about sunset. As if Noct could only buy us one day.”

There is a promise of violence in Gladio’s voice, and Ignis turns his face toward the sunlight from the west. “They have spent ten years in darkness,” Ignis reminds him, too gentle to be a rebuke. “They will be less fearful when the sun rises again.”

* * *

They share one last meal together in the presence of their king. Ignis doesn’t know if his gentler approach is any more effective than Gladio’s in getting Prompto to finish what he has been given, but Gladio doesn’t jump in to reinforce him, so Prompto must consume enough for his satisfaction.

It is easier to dress Noctis than it was to undress him, though his limbs are less pliable the second time around. The grief, though raw, is not as fresh, and it is difficult to remain in denial about Noct’s passing when they’ve handled his body, kept watch at his side, and built his pyre. Ignis’s fingers linger on the new stitches in Noct’s shirt, delicate and even. It is expertly done.

“Someone else fixed it,” Prompto volunteers. “When I went to get them down from the line, they’d already been taken care of.”

Ignis remembers the people lurking nearby while he and Prompto cleaned the clothes. “Noctis was their king, too.”

Not just the three of theirs, however much they might wish it. The growing buzz of the people who have gathered to Hammerhead over the course of the day is proof enough of that. They deserve to see Noctis off as well.

Once Noctis is dressed again, Gladio and Ignis lift him from the table so Prompto can slide the litter underneath. They take a few moments to rearrange the lines of his clothes and the sweep of his hair. Prompto tucks Noct’s picture back where it belongs, and then the three of them wash their hands again and don their Kingsglaive jackets for their final duty.

Cindy lets them know when the sun begins to set, and Gladio tells her they are ready. She and her partner step out through the side door, and the crowd outside slowly quiets as they pass along the news.

“You did it, Noct.” There is an overwhelming warmth between the ragged edges of Gladio’s voice. For one final, private moment, they are back at the base of the Citadel steps and sending their king off again. “I’m proud of you.”

“We won’t let you down. Promise.”

Ignis swallows past the aching in his throat. All he can do is produce an echo: “Thank you, Noct. For everything.”

The sliding garage door rises slowly. Gladio and Ignis grip the handles on the litter—Ignis ignores the protest of his new blisters—and lift Noctis off the workbench to hang between them. Prompto retrieves the Sword of the Father, and once the door is high enough for Gladio to clear it without ducking, they step out into the last of the sunlight.

Ignis hears the collective inhalation of more people than he can accurately parse. Then comes a staccato of fists to chests and breastplates and a wave of rustling clothes and clanking armor as the people bow to their last king. 

Gladio and Ignis set Noctis upon his pyre while Prompto drives the Sword of the Father point first into the ground at Noct’s feet. Once the litter is stable and Ignis has stepped back, Gladio reaches for the torch that someone offers him and sets the pyre ablaze.

And Noctis burns, a final time. 

* * *

Between his exhaustion and his grief, Ignis isn’t certain who drifted toward whom first, but by the time the last flames burn low, Prompto and Gladio are on either side of him, arms pressed against his like they can sense he needs their support to stay on his feet. The skin of his face and neck and hands is tight from hours spent standing so close to the fire, and his headache is back in full force between the acrid smoke, his aching eyes, and thirst.

Much of the crowd waits through the night with them, quiet and respectful. If they speak, it is never loud enough for Ignis to make out the words over the crackling flames. As the fire burns itself out, it becomes easier to hear the people’s murmurs and the silence from Cindy’s garage. It makes it easier to hear the first gasp, and then the cry—

“The sun!”

Ignis turns his face toward the east, but whatever light glimmers along the horizon, it is too faint for him to feel. A cheer—relieved weeping, praise for the King of Light—rips through Hammerhead with such ferocity that Ignis feels the world sway again. He chooses to sink to the ground instead of fall, and as if he gave an order to them, Prompto and Gladio follow him down.

Prompto finds his hand and grips it like he has wanted to do just that for hours now, and Gladio throws an arm around their shoulders like he never plans on letting them escape. Behind the ashes of Noct’s pyre, they huddle close, while everyone else turns away to greet the second sunrise in ten years. 

Ignis isn’t sure how long they sit like that before a pair of labored footsteps approach them. He straightens up, and the other two do as well, though neither pulls away or tries to stand.   

“Cindy?” The rough edges in Prompto’s voice are blunted by his obvious exhaustion. “What’s that?”

Something settles into the space before Ignis. Whatever it is she is carrying, it is undoubtedly heavy if she needs help.

“I know y’all said you were going to get His Majesty a tomb, but until then, I figure this will store the ashes well enough.” 

“You made this?” Gladio’s voice carries a note of surprise in it. 

“Me and Amara did. I just made the base. She made it pretty.”

So Cindy’s partner has a name. Ignis files it away for later and reaches out with his free hand to trace the edges of the object in front of him. It is rectangular, the longest edge about the same length as the stretch of his fingertips to just below his shoulder, the shorter side about two-thirds of that, and about half as tall. The metal is thick and of good quality, cool against his blisters, and for all of Cindy’s modesty, it has been worked along the sides in a subtle lattice pattern, similar to what she did for Noct’s litter, only in metal. It isn’t until he feels along the top of what is certainly an ash box that he begins to understand what Cindy means by _pretty_.

It feels almost as if the lid has been tiled. There are little metal seams instead of grout, and the tiles themselves are not a uniform shape or pattern. Some of them are smaller than the nail on his little finger, while others are about the length of his thumb. Either the mosaic is too complex for him to follow just by touch or his mind is too numb to put the pieces together because Ignis cannot figure out what it is meant to be. 

“Before the Night, I made stained glass windows.” Amara’s voice is low and thick like fog. “Cindy suggested we paint scraps of metal as a substitute for glass. It depicts the sunrise over Insomnia’s skyline.”

The moment that light returned to the world.

* * *

Iris plows her way into Hammerhead and straight into her brother’s arms not long after Noct’s ashes have cooled and settled in their temporary resting place. It is good to hear her voice again, to know that she survived the dawning of a new world.

It is still difficult to hear her voice again when they tell her the details of the sacrifice that Noctis made for them. For everyone.

Iris insists that they let her keep watch over the ashes and the sword and orders them to sleep. She proved herself many years ago ( _too young, like Noctis, like all of them_ ), so they do not protest. In truth, none of them have the will for it by then. They crash into the trailer’s narrow bunks without bothering to wash the traces of smoke from their clothes and hair and skin. The smell follows Ignis into sleep and keeps all but one dream at bay: 

_Walk tall, my friends._

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me at [tumblr](http://audreyskdramablog.tumblr.com/) & [twitter](https://twitter.com/audreyskdrama) if you like.


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